


autumn comes when you’re not yet done

by tieressian



Series: stay with me, hold my hand [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Bonding, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Needs A Hug, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt No Comfort, Kamukura Izuru Is Bad At Feelings, Kamukura Izuru Project | Hope Cultivation Plan, Kissing, Medical Procedures, Other, Reader Has An Ultimate Talent (Dangan Ronpa), Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tragic Romance, as slow as a build it can be, did reader kinda sorta cause the tragedy for the sake of some d?, friends to kinda lovers to holy shit who tf are you, haha izuru dont join junko youre so sexyy, hurt with a modicum of comfort, its all subtext - Freeform, lowkey forgot to put in the romace, reader hates izuru for a hot sec but he doesnt deserve it, reader is diet kamukura, reader is morally grey, to oh crap its the apocalypse, to pseudo friends to pseudo lovers, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieressian/pseuds/tieressian
Summary: what are you supposed to do when the boy you love steps into a pod and someone else comes out?
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Reader, Kamukura Izuru/Reader
Series: stay with me, hold my hand [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090418
Comments: 31
Kudos: 167





	1. hajime hinata

**Author's Note:**

> wow so this was supposed to be romance, but it turned into a rambling mess with romance haphazardly shoved in as an afterthought. oh well i had fun so i hope you do too!
> 
> cw: medical procedures, blood, slight injury

Bleach, lemon citrus, and woodsy shampoo.

You can taste it on your tongue. The flickering of fluorescent lights harsh on your retinas as you grip your pen between your fingers. Tapping the point to your lips before jotting down a note on your clipboard. A messy scrawl of ink at the top of the page.

_Hinata Hajime._

And with a final, unnecessary flourish; you glance up from the paper and lock eyes with the boy in question. Olive green eyes meeting yours before flitting away and focusing on the table in front of him. Fingers gripping his knees and wrinkling the black suit pants of the Reserve Course uniform. His back is ramrod straight, but his shoulders are bowed with a subtle sort of nervousness. Fingernails filed and hair combed and parted with clinical perfection. A stubborn stray hair poking up from the mess like an antennae. As if he’d spent hours in front of a mirror to make himself look presentable.

“Pleasure to meet you, Hinata,” you say warmly, stepping up to the edge of the table and flipping through your papers. Giving your name and launching into the script you’d read five times before, “I’m one of the lead researchers for The Hope Cultivation Plan. Now, before we can consider you for the program, we need you to take a quick test to measure your current talent levels.”

You whip out the packet and set it in front of him. Kindly offering him your pen, which he takes in hand with a questioning raise of his brow.

“...a glitter pen,” he says bluntly, rolling it between his fingers as the sparkles flake off. A rainbow monstrosity that sticks out in the scarcity of the testing room.

You blink. Straying from the script as you purse your lips and frown, “it works, does it not?”

“It’s just...a bit childish?” He ends the sentence with a questioning, unsure note.

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of immaturity,” you sniff, “it’s recognizable, no one can mistake it for someone else’s.”

“But it’s more enticing to steal,” he rebuts, trying to brush off the glitter caked to his skin.

“Are you insinuating that you want to steal my pen?”

“What? No!” He objects, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as glitter makes its way to his black jacket.

“So you _don’t_ want to steal my pen.”

“Yes.”

“So you don’t like it?”

“What are you saying?” He says annoyedly. Setting down your pen in defeat as he swipes his sparkling fingers across the metal tabletop, “it’s just a _pen.”_

A cheeky smile tugs at your lips. “I know, I’m just messing with you,” you pluck a plain ballpoint pen from your breast pocket and hand it over, “this test in particular is an assessment of your quantitative reasoning skills. We’ll move on to a digital version to test spatial reasoning, pattern recognition, processing speed, etcetera etcetera.”

His face hardens with the harshness of a marble statue. A burning sort of determined stubbornness that shocks you. Setting his sights on the paper as if it’s an enemy he needs to defeat.

“Why do you talk like that?” He questions. He gives you the sense of someone who doesn’t really cut corners. Jumps straight to the chase, to the meat of the conversation, “you’re my age, right?”

“I am,” you agree, “I would be attending Hope's Peak right now, if not for the trustees' want for my talent.”

“Oh,” his expression darkens considerably, “you’re part of the Main Course.

“Yes and no,” you answer, picking up your glitter pen and twirling it like a baton, “I only attended one day before I was taken from the program. I didn’t even get to meet my class.” You sigh, a hint of what could be regret haunting your tone. “The Ultimate Neuroscientist is rather coveted in a project like this.”

“That’s a useful talent,” he says almost bitterly. Knuckles whitening as he grips the pen with a barely reigned in viciousness.

“Arguably so,” you acquise, “not so much if you find the study dreadfully, dreadfully boring.”

“You find your talent boring?” He says in disbelief, “that seems impossible.”

“Well, it seems I’m the exception,” you force a smile, “really, I envy you. No expectations, no set path in life. Free to do as you wish.” You sigh wistfully, hugging the clipboard to your chest before coming back down to earth. “But you’re not here to be reassured in your talentlessness, you’re here to become talent incarnate, hmm?”

“...yeah,” he picks up the pen and presses the point to paper, “but thanks...I guess.” His gaze meets yours for a split second. A strange, youthful giddiness piercing through you as you note the sparkling quality of his eyes. A deep, emerald green that shines so prettily even beneath artificial light.

A genuine smile tugs at your lips.

“Start whenever you’re ready, Hinata.”

—

_With the woefully average results of HINATA HAJIME’S scores, Hope’s Peak has determined him to be the perfect candidate for the KAMUKURA PROJECT. Considering the additional endorsement from DIRECTOR TENGAN and the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST, we have high hopes for the now dubbed SUBJECT SIX._

_SCORES_

_Verbal Reasoning [ABOVE AVERAGE]_

_Quantitative Reasoning [AVERAGE]_

_Spatial Reasoning [AVERAGE]_

_Short/Working Memory [AVERAGE]_

_Pattern Recognition [AVERAGE]_

_Processing Speed [BELOW AVERAGE]_

_(Please disregard the doodle at the bottom of the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST’S notes. It appears to be a sketch of SUBJECT SIX’S eye)._

—

* * * *

Antiseptic, fresh linens, and floral deodorant.

The smell burns at your nostrils as you slip into the medical wing. Footsteps echoing in the halls as you take careful, measured steps. Your feet lining up perfectly within every tile as you march through the ward. A small, leather case slung over your shoulder as your fingers trace the ragged seam on the side. A bubble of excitement rising in your chest like sparkling champagne pressing up against the cork.

Hinata Hajime Hinata Hajime Hinata Hajime. The name repeats on loop in your head like a skipping record. If you weren’t so acutely aware of your mental states, you’d mistake this feeling for a silly crush. But really, it’s more like scientific anticipation. Hope, in a way. The other five contenders for the program had dropped out before the final step. Sent on their way with a pat on the back and a briefcase stacked with money (you haven’t seen any of them since, though you’re sure they’re just basking in their newfound riches). But Hinata has a spark, a determination. Which was why you’d fought so fiercely when the board had considered denying him.

And lo and behold, it paid off.

It’s been many days since you’ve seen him last. Slaving over your research and perfecting every single step of the final, invasive surgery which will solidify him as talent in mortal form.

But you’re due for a break. And what better way to mask this lazy stint than under the guise of further research?

To put it simply, you want to play chess.

With careful grace, you weave around a herd of doctors and duck into Hinata’s room. Closing the door with a muffled click and stepping up to the foot of the hospital bed. Bouncing on your heels with almost childish excitement as you fiddle with the leather strap of your bag.

“Hinata,” you call, leaning forward and raking your eyes up and down his form. He’s slumped tiredly against a thin pillow. His Reserve Course suit replaced by a robin's egg blue hospital gown that hangs loose around his shoulders, “are you awake?”

He may not be, you realize with sinking disappointment. Eyes sweeping over the bandages wound around his torso. A few days strong from the first of many prep surgeries. He must be exhausted, and you can feel the beginnings of guilt winding in your gut at the prospect of forcing him to play chess with you. The dreariness of the nearly empty room closing in like collapsing walls.

But then his eyes blink open—hazy and unfocused—and narrow in on you.

“Oh, it’s you,” he slurs, recognition dawning on his tired features, “what are you doing here?”

“I need a partner,” you settle yourself on the edge of the cot and flip open your bag. Pulling out a folded chessboard and eagerly setting up the pieces. Unaware of the insinuation of your words until you glance up and catch the embarrassed look on his face, “not like _that_. I need someone to play with.”

“Play with someone else,” he grumbles, head falling back against the pillows as he squeezes his eyes shut, “I’m tired and I don’t even know you.”

Straight to the point, you see.

“Ah, but this is your chance!” You grin, poking his leg with the rounded point of the bishop, “what better way to get to know someone than playing the most strategic, brain wracking game known to man? It’s like two armies faced on a battlefield. Intimately knowledgeable, impossibly alike.”

“You’re making my head hurt,” he complains. Heaving himself up and slouching over the perfectly set board. Blinking slowly as he shakes his head as if to clear it.

“If you’re not feeling well, I can find somebody else to play,” you suggest, an olive branch for him to grasp onto.

A branch which he now shoves aside. Stubbornly set on just playing the goddamn game.

“No. I’ll play,” he grits his teeth to fight a dizzy spell, “I’m _fine.”_

He is very much not fine.

But he’s not one to admit it, and you’re not interested in calling him out. Letting him take the lead as he grips a pawn between thumb and forefinger and moves it forward two spaces. The simple move seeming to exhaust him as he folds his hand in his lap.

And so it begins. 

Silence reigns over the two of you like a blanket of smoke. The only sounds being the soft click of the moving chess pieces and Hinata mumbling to himself during his turns. The quiet shattering like a China plate as you take his queen after a series of complicated moves.

“This isn’t fair!” He snaps, glaring at his captured collection of black pieces that pales in comparison to your own.

“I’m not cheating, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you assure. Finger poised atop the white marble piece of his queen and pushing it back and forth. Tilting it forward and pulling it back before it can fall onto the bed sheets.

“No, but…” he frowns at the checkerboard as if he can will the pieces in his favor, “you’re an Ultimate and I’m...not. In what world would this be an equal match?”

“I’m the Ultimate Neuroscientist, not the Ultimate Chessmaster,” you shrug, “any skills I have otherwise were gained through practice. Who’s to say you won’t gain them, either?”

“It doesn’t work that way…” he mumbles.

“And why doesn’t it?” You object. A thrill of victory running through you as he spitefully drags his rook across the board. “Oh, the good old fashioned nature versus nurture debate. Where does talent originate? From birth or sheer human ingenuity?”

He thinks for a moment. “Both. I mean, if you’re born with a stronger build you’re more likely to get an athletic talent. But you have to put in effort to strengthen it.”

“Exactly!” You grin, sliding your remaining knight piece to the right, “talent is such an amorphous thing. To say it’s one way or another would be dismissing the truth of the matter. That talent in it of itself is unattainable!”

His interest is piqued. You can see it in the way he tries to keep his expression neutral. Forcing boredom onto his features as he sidles his king to the left. “What are you trying to say?”

“Well, the scientific world as we know it is constantly shifting and changing,” you begin. Twining your fingers together and resting your chin atop them, “every day new information is learned, everyday old research becomes absolute. And eventually, my title as Ultimate Neuroscientist will be usurped by another. It could be years from now, it could be tomorrow. But eventually there will come a time where my knowledge is no longer...well, _ultimate._ ” His eyes catch yours and you pause. Wetting your lips as the intrigue of his stare pins you to the spot. Excitement parsing through you at the possibility of an avid listener, “the title in it of itself is rather pretentious, don’t you think? Ultimate, the best at what you do. There’s so many people on earth, so many people unaccounted for. Some ordinary joe-shmoe may be walking around as we speak, unaware that they are in fact an Ultimate.”

“So you’re saying the system is inherently flawed.”

“Why of course! What system isn’t?” You smirk. God, intelligence is so attractive, “the whole concept of talents and Ultimates is built off a tangle of contradictions. Like Super High School Level Luck,” you giggle at his mumbled cursing as you take his bishop, “every year they take on another lucky student. And with so many holding the title, doesn’t that mean none of them are the Ultimate Lucky Student? Which one is the true Ultimate, and which ones are the fakes? In fact, is luck even something you can measure? Is a lottery winning enough to determine they’re an Ultimate?” 

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” he observes. A hint of admiration worming into his tone.

“I have to, it’s my job to research talent,” you tap a finger against your temple with a conspiratorial smile, “and it’s your brain I’m messing with, afterall.”

A shiver runs through his body at the thought. A hand coming to rest atop his bandages as his fingers trace over the gauze.

“You’re nervous,” you observe placidly.

“Of course I am!” He sputters, “sorry that I’m not that excited for you to scramble up my brains.”

“Yet you signed up for this,” you lean forward until you’re little more than a breadth away. His eyes wide and pupils trembling at your uncomfortable closeness, “why?” He turns his head and worries his lip between his teeth. Exhaling almost in relief as you retreat back to your previous position. 

If he doesn’t want to speak, you can respect that.

“Regardless, there’s no need for you to worry. I swear on my life, you’ll be fine,” you give him what you hope is a reassuring smile, “I may hate my Ultimate, but I didn’t get it for no good reason.” You chuckle slightly, rubbing the back of your neck as you close your eyes and smile, “my apologies, you probably want to get your mind off all this talent stuff and all I’ve been doing is ranting and raving.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs, “I feel a bit better...so thanks.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” you say warmly, shifting your pawn up a step and smiling victoriously, “checkmate.”

“What?! There’s no way—“ his hand hovers over the board, lips turning into a frown as he recognizes his defeat, “damn.”

“Good game, you were quite the challenge,” you compliment genuinely, “if we’re to play again in the future, make sure not to forget the pawn’s. The underdogs are not to be neglected. That’s the plot of every teen movie, is it not?”

He chuckles at your reference. The harsh blow of losing softened by your words. You have a feeling he’s not one for failure.

You can relate.

“I’ll remember that,” he promises, lining up the pieces on the board and sending you a look, “this time, I won’t be as easy of an opponent.”

You grin.

“Show me what you’ve got, Hinata.”

_—_

_The board has recognized the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST’S proposal for SUBJECT SIX’S wellbeing and has deigned to approve said request._

_From now on, social interaction with SUBJECT SIX will be mandatory and strictly enforced. Any unapproved changes in routine will be dealt with and swiftly punished._

_(The ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST’S recent vetoing of their own request—read EXCERPT 1A—has been denied—read EXCERPT 1B)._

_—_

_[EXCERPT 1A]_

_From the desk of the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST,_

_I must confess that I’ve been interacting with one HINATA HAJIME on a daily basis for the past three weeks. While these interactions were originally intended for research, I would be lying to say that they were not also for my own selfish desires. I assure you, these ulterior motives have been tamped down under the importance of research. And I’ve done nothing to interfere with THE HOPE CULTIVATION PLAN._

_Moving on, if there is anything I’ve noticed in these interactions, it’s that HINATA’S condition always seemed to improve after the fact. Such as:_

  * _Increased Appetite_


  * More Agreeable


  * Healthier Complexion (ie. rosy and/or red)


  * Improved Activity In Both Right and Left Brain.


  * Notable Chemical Surges:


  * Dopamine


  * Oxytocin


  * Vasopressin


  * Norepinephrine


  * Serotonin


  * Increased Brain Activity In:


  * Hypothalamus


  * Ventral Tegmental


  * Caudate Nucleus


  * Prefrontal Cortex



_Based on these results, I believe it is in the academy’s best interest to allow HINATA HAJIME to be able to freely socialize._

_—_

_[Excerpt 1B]_

_To the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST,_

_We have read your rescission of your prior request, and have elected to ignore it._

_To say that a strict schedule of social interaction would be more detrimental than positive is to slight the brilliant minds working on THE HOPE CULTIVATION PLAN. Brilliant minds that, might I add, are many years your senior. Minds that are nowhere near replaceable. Nowhere near forgettable. If you wish to receive your infinite grant, I recommend you stay in line._

_While you ponder over that, we at Hope’s Peak are still willing to compromise. If you are so opposed to a strict three hours of interaction each day, would you be so negatively inclined if_ you _were the one performing said interaction?_

_Think about it._

_—_

* * * *

Old paper, pencil lead, and eraser crumbs.

Those earthy scents envelop your senses as you bring the writing pad up to your face and blow. Brushing away the eraser dust with a quick gust of breath before lowering it back to your lap. You twirl your pencil between your fingers as you cross your legs in a pretzel. Sat comfortably at the foot of Hinata’s cot as he sits up against the pillows.

“Color,” you call out, eyes roaming over the half-completed mad libs page. Tapping the eraser against your lower lip as you wait for his response.

“Pink.”

“Body part.”

“Hair.”

“Adjective.”

“Cute.”

You hum quietly to yourself as you fill out the blanks. More than aware that he has an image in mind as you finish up the mad libs sheet. It’s one of the few allotted activities for Hinata. And with him already so bored of chess, you’d caved when he’d asked for something, anything else.

This isn’t much better.

You’re both bored with the repetitive nature of the game. But Hinata’s too stubborn to admit it. So you’re stuck filling out paper after paper until he says otherwise.

For three. More. Hours.

“Adjective.”

“Perfect.”

“Noun.”

“Student.”

Without another word, you flip the paper around and hold it up for Hinata to read. Considerate of his bandaged hands as you hover it just below his nose. His eyes roaming over the page as he reads the smudged up paper.

_The first time I saw you my heart_ **_ran_ ** _with joy._

_We were in_ **_history_ ** _class and you raised your_ **_leg_ ** _to ask a question._

_Your voice sounded like_ **_ringing_ ** _. Then I noticed your_ **_pink hair_ ** _. It is so_ **_cute_ ** _!_

_Overall, I_ **_walk_ ** _you. I would tell you who I am but I’m too_ **_scared._ **

_Just know that the_ **_person_ ** _you receive on Valentine’s Day is from me._

_I hope you think it’s_ **_perfect._ **

_Your_ **_student_ ** _Admirer_

Hinata’s never been good at hiding his emotions. Disappointment in the hunch of his shoulders and lowering of his eyes. Frustration in the grit of his teeth and furrow of his brow. Sadness in the hollowness of his gaze and the stillness of his chest.

You can read him like a book, and you can tell in an instant that something’s wrong.

“You’re upset,” you observe, turning the page around and quickly scanning over the paragraph, “well, the sentence structure _is_ atrocious.”

“It’s not that…” he says quietly, put off by your clinical bluntness, “it just…reminds me of someone.”

“You’ve been thinking of them,” you nod. Hinata glancing up in shock from your impossible observation, “I can tell.”

“How...?”

“You have that look on your face,” you wave a hand in front of your eyes and scrunch up your nose, “all lovelorn and tragic. Romeo missing his Juliet.”

“She’s not—! Oh,” he pauses mid-objection, realizing he just gave himself away, “it’s not like that. She’s just a friend.”

“Ah,” you hum in understanding, making quotation marks with your fingers, “ _just a friend._ ”

“No, really. She’s just a friend,” he insists, honesty written all across his face. An open book with bold words printed across the pages.

“I believe you,” you assure, lips twisting into a curious smile, “now, tell me about this friend.”

His face goes soft in a way you haven’t yet seen. It’s cute, in a way. Even if it’s not directed towards you.

“She’s...she’s part of the Main Course. The Ultimate Gamer. But she never really held that against me. She didn’t really care about talent. And she was really nice and comforting, in her own way,” his eyes lock onto yours before flitting away, a barely there flush rising to his cheeks that quickly fades. His lips turning down into a slight frown, “I miss her.”

You mirror his frown, “I’m sorry to hear that. And if I’m not being so presumptuous...she’s the reason you’re here.” 

It’s not a question.

He opens his mouth as if to refuse, but his shoulders slump in exhausted defeat, “...yeah.”

“And not to pry, but...why would she be your motivation?”

“I…” he stares down at his bandaged hands and tries to flex his fingers. Wincing in pain as you surge forward and gently envelop his hands in your own. Holding them still as he glowers at the gauze, “I want to be a better version of myself that I can be proud of around her. I want to be...an Ultimate.”

You bow your head and withdraw your hands, “a want so strong that you’d put yourself under the knife.” Your gaze lifts and locks with his own. An electric shock shooting up your spine at the riveting eye contact, “though I believe it’s a bit too late, you do know there’s no shame in being talentless.”

He turns his head with a disbelieving huff. Though you didn’t expect him to be so agreeable right off the bat. He’d signed up for a talent cultivation program, afterall. That practically _screamed_ of a debilitating inferiority complex.

“Out of all the choices you could’ve made to deal with that want, you ended up here,” you prop your chin up in your hand and regard him with a pitious gaze, “did you feel you were stuck at a crossroads? Too distracted by the paths already set out to realize you could make your own?”

His jaw works as he grinds his teeth together. A click click click of rubbing molars as his eyes bore holes into the clinical white paint of the wall. You make him uncomfortable, you know this. Picking at the soft, fleshy bits of his vulnerabilities like a medical dissection. But there’s a hint of genuinity. A want to help, to guide. An awkward sort of friendship characterized by far too deep conversations and a looming deadline.

Because you are, friends.

As much as the word applies to a situation such as this.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says stiffly. An air of finality to his words that urges you to _shut up_ , “I’m here now and there’s no turning back.”

“The contract already signed,” you say brusquely. And all he can do is nod, “well, let’s take our minds off this depressing talk and do something else. I don’t know about you, but if I play one more game of mad libs I’ll be sick.”

His stance relaxes, and you can tell he’s grateful for the distraction.

He’ll have to face the truth soon enough.

_—_

_(A note found on the official nurses billboard)._

_All personnel be wary of SUBJECT SIX and his fluctuating moods and opinions. If his temperament gets dangerously low, please retrieve the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST and grant them additional interaction time as specified in clause 3B._

_However, if SUBJECT SIX continues to demonstrate worrying levels of disillusionment. The ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST must be brought in for questioning._

—

* * * *

Scotch tape, spices, and copper.

There’s an urgency to your footsteps as you rush through the dark halls. Heart pounding against your ribs in a percussive drumbeat that you swear the whole ward can hear. Clutching a brown paper bag in hand like a student late for their bus. With a bitten-off gasp, you take a sharp right turn and careen around the corner with unexpected velocity. Stumbling into Hinata’s room and wincing as the door slams shut with unnecessary volume.

He hardly even stirs.

Silence permeates the air like a tangible thing. The distant hum of the generator pulsing through you as you take measured steps closer to his bed. Tubes and IV’s trail from his pincushion arm as morphine drips down the line, a mess of bandages wrapped around half his face. Hair peeking out from under the gauze as dried blood crusts around the once sterile fabric. An unidentified tautness winds in your chest as you watch over him. Sickly green lighting illuminating the scene from one of the steadily beeping monitors. Eerie, otherworldly, unnatural.

Beating back a building sense of terror, you set the bag down at the edge of the cot and sit by his bedside. Urging him awake with a hurried whisper and a gentle squeeze of the shoulder. His eye blinks open and droops at half mast. Heavy and lidded with a glazed, drugged quality to it that’s been lurking for days. Earthy green backlit with bloody red, a trick of a light that dissipates as he turns his head with a groan. Bed sheets rustling as he moves to itch his hooked up arm, only for you to grab his wrist and set it back down on his chest.

“Careful,” you whisper, voice hushed yet so loud in the quiet in the room, “you’ll hurt yourself."

It takes a moment for your words to register, but once they do he wrenches his arm out of your grasp with a weak twitch. Independent by nature, unwilling to be coddled.

“‘M not a child,” he protests, the bite of his words lost under the slurry rasp of his voice. Resentfully, he accepts your outstretched hand and hazards sitting up. Steadying himself with two harsh blinks before slumping against the headboard in victory, “what did you bring?”

Snapped back to the moment, you grasp the paper bag and pull out the contents within. Handing him a lukewarm tin of soup and a plastic spoon before nearly folding up the stained paper. With the shakiness of an elderly patient, he takes the spoon between his fingers and pries the lid off the bowl. The scent of food wafting through the air as fear strikes through your gut. Fear of being caught, that is.

Because you’re not supposed to be here. Not this late, not with Hinata, and certainly not with food. Food that he’s not allowed to have. Food that hasn’t been approved. Food that’s been denied, denied in favor of drugged up prison lunches that the nurses force down his throat. Sending him spiraling into unconsciousness once the last bite passes his lips. Wasting away. Half his time spent either unconscious or under the knife.

And, you suppose, that’s exactly why you’re doing this. Curse your soft heartedness, curse your basic human decency, curse your infernal emotional attachment. Curse your easily swayed sensibilities when you’d watched his mouth water at just the thought of an actual meal. Sneaking him a handful of chips and a cookie with your back turned innocently to the cameras. The charade carries on for months. Months of sneaking Hinata food and talking over the tidbits. Taking requests like a waitress, making a whispered promise you’d get him something substantial one of these days.

Well, today’s that day.

You’re not exactly sure why you’re doing this. Putting everything you’ve worked for— _yourself,_ in fact—at risk for the sake of this boy and his cravings. But you’ve never hesitated. Never batted an eye. Why stop now?

“Hurry up, if you can,” you say worriedly, forced politeness invading your tone as your head swivels from side to side, “we don’t want to be caught.”

Maybe you could play this off as a late night visit. Write some bullshit paper about checking brain activity or talent fluctuations.

“If you rush me, I’ll choke,” he says matter of factly. Depth perception off as his spoon glances over the rim of the bowl and stirs up the soup.

“It’s soup,” you say blankly, “if you choke, it’s well deserved.”

He snorts. And for a split second you can forget the dreariness of your situation and pretend this is normal. Pretend that the guilt festering in your gut is just traditional nerves. That the final surgery isn’t looming around the corner. The glint of the executioner’s axe catching in the sun.

Denial is easy to sink into. Welcoming arms that slink around your waist and refuse to let go. Distracting yourself with the sloping cut of his jaw and the twist of his lips. A selfish sort of indulgence that lights up a thousand watts of _wrongness_ within you. Because in what world is something like this morally right. There’s got to be a power dynamic hidden somewhere. An imbalance, a rot, an impossible desire that’ll never be reciprocated.

“How’s your head,” you question, fingers twitching as you move to touch his forehead only to abort the motion, “because I’m fairly certain there shouldn’t be blood on your bandages.”

His fingers trace over the gauze almost subconsciously, “nothing I can’t handle.”

“You don’t need to _handle_ pain. You have the means to manage it.”

The sliver of skin visible past the bandages pales, “I don’t want any more drugs.”

_Oh._

“Understandable,” you nod, “just...let me know if you need anything. We’re already running a smuggling ring of sorts, why not go even further?”

His lips twist into a soft smile, eyes catching yours with a glimmer of fondness that sets your heart ablaze. A shameful fluttering starting up in your stomach like flapping wings. You open your mouth to say something, freezing in place as the lights flick on and footsteps approach from behind. Muscles locked as your heart beats a panicked tattoo against your ribs.

Your name is called with a poisonous bite.

The gig is up.

_—_

_In direct violation of policy, the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST has committed a grievous offense and violated the sanctity of the KAMUKURA PROJECT. According to their account, the blame is solely on them. Meaning that SUBJECT SIX will be spared of any repercussions. The same cannot be extended to the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST._

_As consequence, they will be barred from any interaction with SUBJECT SIX for the immediate future. An indefinite suspension that the board sees no need to appeal._

_—_

_(An email sent out to the anaesthesiologists)._

_Increase the dosage for SUBJECT SIX immediately. Thanks to your negligence, SUBJECT SIX awoke during surgery in great distress. Requesting both his mother and the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST._

_The request was denied._

_—_

* * * *

Stale air, cotton robes, and the inexplicable sense of something ending.

The electric thrill of rebellion sears through you like a teenager sneaking out at night. An excitement that sparks beneath your skin like fizzing pop rocks, adrenaline pumping through your veins as if you’d leapt off a cliff.

In reality, you’ve just snuck into Hinata’s room.

Though that’s no less nerve-wracking. Considering the danger you’ll be in if you’re caught. Your career, your future, your _life._

Technically, you’re already as good as caught. The security camera blinking in the corner like a single, beady eye that looms over the two of you. Peering through the darkness of the room as you fold yourself over the bed. Half your body in the chair and the other half sprawled across Hinata’s stomach. The boy in question lain back on the mattress, bed sheets twisted around his legs as his hand rests on your back. Thumb smoothing up and down your spine in a shaky, constant movement. IV lines rubbing against each other in a concernedly tangled knot.

You know there’s consequences awaiting you. Punishment beyond belief. But you just can’t bring yourself to care.

Because it’s the last night.

The last night before the surgery.

Domestic contentment coils in your chest like a cat lounging in the sun. Still waist deep in a sea of denial as you turn your cheek and blink up at Hinata. Green eyes glinting in the dark with a golden flash ringed by red.

“What are you thinking about?” you wonder, voice a raspy hush that cuts through the silence like a knife. Hinata pausing his stroking as you stifle an indignant huff in the back of your throat.

“Tomorrow,” he answers simply, staring up at the ceiling with a serious look of contemplation, “what it’ll feel like, what will happen. I can’t help but worry about it.”

You hum in understanding. “I’ve said this before, there’s no need to worry,” you reach forward and rest your fingers atop his unoccupied hand, “I’ll tell you this because confidentiality is nothing but bull. All my research has been about is memory retention and protection. I’ve gone over it so often it’s practically seared into my mind. If everything goes according to plan, your brain should be completely intact and unharmed.”

“That’s not that encouraging…” he mumbles, “and what if it doesn’t go to plan?”

“You’ll be a lobotomized vegetable.”

“Don’t just _say_ that!” he whisper-shouts, dead serious as you bite back a rueful giggle. Expression turning somber as you notice the hint of downright terror shadowing his features.

“I’m sorry, that was in bad taste,” you soothe, voice gentle and reassuring like a childhood blanket, “but I swear on my life you’ll be fine. You’ll wake up with your talents and ride off into the sunset as the credits roll.”

“That’s the dream,” he sighs, tension unraveling as his hand resumes its rhythmed stroking, “can I...confess something?”

“You say that like you’re on death row.”

“It feels like it,” he admits a touch fearfully. Your fingers curling atop his so it gives the illusion they intertwine, “a while back, when I told you about that girl...I lied,” he swallows, throat bobbing at the motion, “the truth is, my reasons for being here are just plain selfish. Not to help people, not even to impress a girl. Just to make me feel better in my uselessness.”

You blink, “oh, was I not supposed to know that?”

A gust of breath passes his lips in a half-sigh-half-laugh. Hand freezing atop your back as his fingers curl around the fabric of your shirt. “I don’t understand you. I tried to countless times and yet...” he sigh-laughs again, “usually I hate the things I don’t understand but...I don’t hate you.”

“Wow thanks, I’m flattered.”

“N-not like that!” He sputters, “well, yes, and also no!” His sentence stops abruptly as he scrambles for words. Lips twisted in a frankly adorably pout as he furrows his brows. “I don’t get you, but I _want_ to. I want to understand you and know you and hear anything and everything about you.”

Your mouth feels dry, and you swallow around the gumminess of your throat. “That almost sounds like a love confession.”

Even in the darkness of the room you can see the flush on his cheeks. “Don’t say stupid things. Just...when this is over do you…” he tries to psyche himself up, voice failing him as it cracks and pitches up an octave, “do you want to go on a date?”

_When this is over…_

“I’d love to,” you grin. Happiness singing through you like a warbling morningbird. Anticipation buzzing at the back of your skull as you squeeze his hand in yours.

He squeezes back.

* * * *

Antiseptic, sterile metal, and Hinata Hajime.

Piercing green light bathes the walls like an exploding star illuminating a dying planet. A metal surgery capsule standing in the center of the room like an open casket, Hinata nestled in the center with wires and tabs stuck to his skin. Herds of doctors flit about with a calculated smugness that sets your teeth on edge. Trustees watching from the operating theater like sharks grinning at a meaty rib cage.

You should consider yourself lucky to even be here. The necessity of your presence outweighing the grievances of your crimes. But you’ll deal with the repercussions later. Focus instead on the here and now, tamp down the nerves buzzing in your chest like a hollow beehive and _work._

A hiss, a whisper of gears, and the lid of the capsule falls closed and locks. Words pushing up against your throat as you feel the urge to say _something._ Parting words more befitting than _‘watch your step, Hinata.’_

No matter, you’ll say something meaningful some other time.

Machinery hums and whirs like the rumblings of some greater creature. Vitals streaming across the computer screens at a normal, unalarming rate. Quelling the nervous tapping of your foot as glares are leveled your way. Unconsciously, you run your tongue along your teeth and follow the motion with a sigh. Passively listening along to the conversation bursting in static from the speakers. Passing remarks about heart rate, oxygen intake, unimportant things you quickly disregard and—

_“All traces of the former personality have been deleted.”_

Terror seizes you in its skeletal grip, and reality crumbles apart like wet newspaper. Headlines blurred and running as black ink drips from the ratty pulp. Your breath catches in your throat like a fishing hook, tugging painfully as you fight to dislodge the lump. Turning slowly on your heel as you move to face the truth. The truth you should’ve known all along.

You’ve been used.

Your research twisted and warped, stretched and folded like strings of sickeningly sweet taffy. Your time wasted, talent abused; a thousand other selfish mournings that fall away like a mirror collapsing into a puddle of shards. Heart pounding in your ears in a sloshing thump as your gaze falls on the true victim in all of this.

Hinata.

Can you even call him that anymore?

“Open the capsule,” your voice sounds foreign to your own ears. Dark and ragged with an underlying current of desperation that thrums like pulsing electricity, “ _now._ ”

No one moves, not even bothering to grant you a hint of acknowledgement. And an image pops into your head of a mouse weaving between marching feet. Scampering and squeaking as it's squashed beneath leather soles.

But this mouse is leagues smarter.

And a lot rasher, you realize in retrospect. Blinded by emotion like a thrashing fly caught in a spider's web. Ignoring the more convenient method of crashing the computers, or unplugging the wires, or simply _stopping_ the program in favor of rushing forward and tugging at the lid. Scrambling at the seam of the pod as your fingernails crack and bleed. A painful hangnail that throbs like a heartbeat, an agony that pales in comparison to the scrape of your own ragged breaths. A panicked urgency that whisks away any and all rational thought like a cigarette butt flung into the gutter. Smoldering and ashy, a roaring flame that dwindles into defeat as arms hook around you and pull you away. Still fighting as steam billows from the bloodied cracks and the capsule opens like a treasure box.

The first thing you notice is the hair.

It falls over his shoulders in a silken cascade of raven hues. A shade away from pure black, the tiniest of imperfections as rivulets of chestnut highlight the ends. Folding around him in a rippling cape as he sits up into a silent hunch. A single strand shadowing his forehead as it brushes across his sloping nose, skin a touch paler than before. The flush of color, of life, drained away as talent is pumped straight into his veins. His cells. A beaming aura of pure hope that hurts to look at. Like the angels spoken of in the Testament, an amalgamation of eyes and limbs that are so distinctly other that they call down ‘do not be afraid.’

You are very afraid.

Not of him, but for him.

Because his eyes pierce yours--red, so very red. Not even a hint of the green they once held--and like Frankenstein staring at his creation, you realize what you’ve taken part in. The life you’ve taken and the life you’ve damned.

You scream. You’re whisked away.

And the boy who was once Hinata Hajime watches, bored.


	2. izuru kamukura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah its been awhile
> 
> This chapter was HARD. Kamukura is just a hard character to get right. I based my characterization on a couple other fics I've read, but I still feel like I've fallen short. Either way, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Content warning: mentions of violence, mention of medical procedures, slight injuries

_ With the success of the KAMUKURA PROJECT, Hope’s Peak is proud to announce SUBJECT SIX’S seamless transition to KAMUKURA IZURU. A change undoubtedly made smoother by the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST’S research. _

_ Regarding the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST, Hope’s Peak staff must prevent them from leaving testing grounds at any costs. They are far too informed to be let loose, and they will still be useful in the final stages. _

_ Once the KAMUKURA PROJECT concludes, the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST will be dealt with similarly to SUBJECTS ONE through FIVE. _

_ — _

_ (Denial). _

Are you not allowed to mourn? There are five stages of grief and yet you feel as if you haven’t even begun. Standing at the edge like a trembling child in line for a rollercoaster. Because once you step on, once you strap into place and grip the handlebars, you’ll have no choice but to acknowledge the drop. Acknowledge that Hinata is no longer amongst the living.

Because the person commandeering his corpse is nothing like the ghost that still haunts your dreams. There’s no fooling yourself that he’s still around, no flimsy half-imaginings of his personality re-emerging. No shadowy remnants of Hinata that cling to his suit, his hair, his eyes. It’s as if a beaming spotlight had been switched on and chased the wisps away. Blinding in a painful, stinging way that makes your stomach drop to your feet and throat close up.

So you avoid him. A last ditch attempt at denial that’s pitiful even to yourself. And in the end, even that ignorance is short-lived. The chain tethering you to Hope's Peak forcing your hand and landing you exactly where you don’t want to be.

The stack of papers are heavy in your hands as you sweep into the room. A stab of pity spearing through you before you quickly tamp it down. Taking in the dismal sight of what is little more than a cell with sad eyes. Kamukura is barely an afterthought in the gaping emptiness of his own prison. A void of both darkness and light that draws your eye like a moth to flame. He sits elegantly atop the singular cot with his leg drawn up to his chest. Hair fanning out in a wispy cape of black that threatens to swallow him whole. Eyes piercing beacons of red that bore into you through a heavy, uninterested gaze. Sweeping over you in careful calculation, completely picking you apart before you can even speak. And considering the talent packed beneath his skin, that’s not too far fetched.

“Kamukura,” you say, the name fitting weirdly on your tongue as your lips curl around the word. An aching bitterness like lemon juice on paper cuts, “I can’t say it’s a pleasure.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t even blink. Which would be more discomfiting if you actually wanted an answer. As it is, you’re more than happy with the silence.

“They wish for you to complete this,” you step forward and hold out the papers, faltering slightly as he makes no move to grab them. Eventually caving and dropping them into his lap, “expectations are high, but I’m sure you’ll deliver.” And you aren’t just sure, you know. Even if something sours within you at the admission.

He unfolds with the uncanny fluidity of jointed, porcelain dolls. Fingers wrapping around the papers without so much as wrinkling the sheets. And with a whisper of movement, the papers are poised right in front of his face. Eyes darting across the pages with inhuman speed that leaves you at a loss. A small crease folding beneath his lip in what could almost be interpreted as a frown.

“Boring,” he says blandly, voice a crackle of sound in a silent radio station. Smooth and smokey where it once cracked and hesitated. The same voice box, the same pitch; but so undeniably  _ other  _ that it’s like a different person entirely, “elementary. It appears I was so bold as to expect a challenge, how disappointing.”

You feel a need to defend the people who have become your captors. A desire borne of sheer spite, it seems. Your own voice rising to meet his like buzzing static, “it’s a mere formality, there may be more engaging material in the future.”

“Unlikely,” he comments, almost resigned in the disinterested way he flips through the packet. Though it’s easy to project emotion on what appears to be a blank slate.

“A shame, then,” you hum, uncomfortably aware that you’re being examined in his peripherals. Tongue clicking restlessly behind your teeth, “it appears you’ll have to suffer for the time being.”

His eyes flash to meet yours. Peering over the edge of the paper with a knowing stare that has you pinned like a bug beneath a microscope. Not even flinching as you blindly pluck a pen from your pocket and toss it to him. Snatching it from the air in a fluid wave that is far too fast for your eyes to track. A flash of glitter catches what little light there is in the room. Unprecedented upset curling in your gut as his fingers remain clean, suit unsullied. Because that’s not how it’s supposed to be _.  _ It’s  _ wrong _ . Technically impossible, if you think about it. The pads of his fingers sparkle-free as he grips the pen in a perfectly tight-yet-loose grip.

You blink, and you return to the moment with a stifled jolt. Amusement twitching your lip upwards only to smooth back down as you watch hope itself flip the paper and write upside down. An attempt to make an otherwise easy task just a touch more difficult.

“Have you tried standing on your head,” you say semi-seriously. His gaze cutting to yours for a split second, clearly unamused. Pen moving unencumbered as if he’d done nothing to inhibit himself, “it may offer you some enrichment.”

He doesn’t bother to grant you a response. And you can’t tell whether you’re annoyed or relieved at the continuous silence. Stilling your tapping foot so he won’t pick up on the nervous tell, though without a doubt he already has. It’s all pretenses between you two. Acting as if he doesn’t notice your anxiety, acting as if you have nowhere else to be, acting as if there isn’t a little nugget of hatred buried in your heart.

And really, there’s a thousand other things you could reflect on right now. But you’re tired. Worn down underfoot like a dirt pathway with grass trampled into the soil. Jagged stones forcibly beaten into smoothness by the raging tides. Silence weighs down on you like a thick layer of smoke. Pressing down on your tongue like a copper penny sliding down your throat. Slimy and gross and leaving a hollow pit of something unrecognizable in your stomach. Feelings you don’t want to address, feelings that you stamp down as you turn on your heel and make for the door. His gaze boring into your back like a brand as the static burst of his voice makes you stop.

“What a disappointment.”

“Excuse me?” you answer, not even bothering to turn back around. Chewing on the gummy underside of your cheek until blood bursts across your tongue.

“ _ You,” _ he clarifies, the slightest of stresses on the word. A calculated lilt that worms beneath your skin in a way so unlike Hinata it hurts. “I was foolish to expect something even remotely interesting from my creator.”

It’s like you’ve been dunked in freezing cold water. The tips of your fingers aching and pulsing in time with your heart beat. Blood dripping from your torn up fingernails, dripping to the floor and evaporating with a hiss. Clenching your fists, skin slick with blood--or is that just sweat? A mental discordance that leaves you teetering, stumbling. Your eyes wide and unblinking as you stay frozen still. Weakness given away freely like grain from open, generous hands. The safe, coddling comfort of denial shattered to pieces like glass bottles in a bar fight. No longer able to clutch at the rope as you’re sent plummeting down into reality. That Hinata is gone and not coming back. That you sculpted god beneath your fingertips with a blindfold round your eyes. That you’re stuck, trapped. Perhaps just as much as he is. 

“Don’t call me that.”

Harsh, snappy. Mechanics and parts laid out bare, stripped down into code and simplified into equations. Dissected and analyzed, timer ticking with a chime and a ring. Oven ready and painting done. Talent and skill and wonders that kill, stamped into his bones and chiseled into his very brain.

You’re tired, you’re aching, you just want to grieve in peace like a normal fucking person.

“Goodbye, Kamukura.”

You don’t get a response.

You weren’t expecting one.

—

_ SCORES _

_ Verbal Reasoning [EXCEPTIONAL] _

_ Quantitative Reasoning [EXCEPTIONAL] _

_ Spatial Reasoning [EXCEPTIONAL] _

_ Short/Working Memory [EXCEPTIONAL] _

_ Pattern Recognition [EXCEPTIONAL] _

_ Processing Speed [EXCEPTIONAL] _

—

_ (Anger). _

It stews in your gut and thrums through your veins. A painful, hammering pulse that pounds at your brain in a skull-splitting migraine. It hurts and aches and  _ twists _ like a knife wedged between your ribs. Handle turned a sharp ninety degrees as it angles up and punctures your heart. Blood spilling down your front and pooling at your feet in a rippling puddle of red. Your reflection scattering across the surface in a twisted shadow, inhuman and unrecognizable.

The trickling beginnings of guilt crawl down your spine like rain on a windshield. Guilt for Hinata; for your sins and ignorance and the warning signs you should’ve noticed sooner. And, strangely, guilt for Kamukura. For the mistreatment and isolation and the  _ boredom boredom boredom  _ he complains of near constantly. Only for him to even grow bored of the complaining.

Because he’s cursed, burdened with talent. Synapses firing a thousand times over whenever he so much as blinks. The world processed through layers of analysis and hard data, laid out in simple statistics and predictions that always come true. A linear path he has no choice but to take. Tethered to predictability with no other option but to play along.

Not to say he doesn’t at least  _ try  _ to stray from mundanity. His efforts are morbidly amusing, especially considering what little he has access to. Half the staff have already been torn to shreds, both psychologically and socially. Affairs exposed and traumas explored without even a hint of hesitation from the Ultimate Hope. He has a tendency to just  _ know  _ without having the means of knowing. A terrifying ability that’s been used for little more than revealing Chairman Takahashi’s longtime embezzling scandal. That and developing an endlessly-sustainable space shuttle, the notes scrawled across the wall in the dying ink from your glitter pen. Pictures taken and stored before the markings were carelessly scrubbed away.

Wasted.

You don’t know what makes you angrier, the rotting potential or your own failures. Kamukura or yourself. The audacity to grieve a boy you barely knew, a boy you personally walked to the chopping block and gave the executioner the axe. Outrage at the passive displeasure of Kamukura’s own existence. His indifference to the life he stole, of the life hoisted upon him by powers greater than his own; powers he’s long since surpassed. Anger at the pity, the empathy that surges within you as you watch him on the cameras. Restlessness reigned in but still visible. Evident in the way he carries himself and clicks his tongue behind his teeth. A mimicked motion he’s picked up from...you, actually. How strange, since you’ve yet to visit him since your last encounter.

Though that’s about to change.

In the end, your own self-hatred outweighed that of the Ultimate Hope. Finding yourself in Kamukura’s cell once again, expression schooled to neutrality as you grip an overflowing box in your arms. The man does little more than quirk a brow as you drop the crate with an echoing  _ thump.  _ Something rattling as boxes and papers poke and spill out over the top, pencils rolling and paper shuffling as it flutters to the cold, concrete floor.

Kamukura doesn’t move from his perch. Eyes glaring red, staring you down unwaveringly as if trying to pick you apart like a coil of yarn. Though you have no doubt he already has. It’s unnerving, knowing that the darkest, grisliest parts of you are set up on a pedestal. On display for him to observe and dismiss with a disinterested shift of his eyes.

“For you,” you say in lieu of an explanation, “so you stop tearing the staff apart for entertainment.”

No vocal response. His body uncoiling as he shifts forward to the edge of his cot. Hair curling around his shoulders as he peers up at you through abnormally thick eyelashes. Gaze flicking down as his eyes scan dismissively over the contents of the box.

“I doubt simple trinkets will keep me engaged,” he comments, eyes meeting yours in a crackle of sharp electricity, “I commend you for trying, though you failed regardless.”

A gust of breath passes your lips in a sigh, “it’s the most anyone’s going to do, so you may as well get used to it.”

The corner of his lip twitches, as if contemplating an expression and deciding against it. “Piteous,” he murmurs, “is that how you perceive my plight? Do you, perhaps, feel bad for me? How predictable, how unerringly human.”

“I am human, Kamukura. It is unavoidable.”

“A human who deigned themselves worthy to play god,” he pulls his leg to his chest and props his chin atop his knee, “typical.”

“I made no such decision,” you say bitterly, “the wool was pulled over my eyes from the very beginning.”

“Denial of responsibility,” he muses, “do you feel guilty, violated?”

“And what if I do?” you jut out your chin, “it doesn’t concern you. Frankly, I can’t see why you care.”

“I don’t,” he says bluntly, straightforward. No pretenses or pointless sugarcoating, “simply put, you are the only thing I’ve found any intrigue in. I wish to know what--or who--you mourned when I first came into this world. My predecessor, who were they.”

Ah, so it all circles back to Hinata.

As always, when it comes to you.

“He was a hapless idiot that threw his life away because of insecurities and expectations,” you answer curtly, something sour in the back of your throat as you speak,“I’m sure there’s some societal commentary in that, but I don’t particularly care.”

You swallow, your throat aches as if you’ve just downed a cup of shattered glass.

“His name was Hinata Hajime.”

Kamukura does not flinch. There is no magical moment where red shifts to green and the world is righted. Just a dead boy's name hanging above you like a dangling noose. A weight off your chest as you air your darkest, most selfish grievances to the void that is Kamukura Izuru.

“And you butchered him,” he says.

You do not flinch.

“I did,” a pause, “I suppose we were both idiots, then.”

Silence. Not uncomfortable, yet not particularly pleasant. An ocean between you that you’re not too keen to cross.

“You cried out for him, did you not,” he speaks at last. Less so of a question and more of a spoken thought. Your mind flashing back to that room bathed in green, tile speckled with your own blood.

“Yes, but--” his brow creases the slightest bit before smoothing back to perfection, “it was for you, as well.”

He does not ask why.

You suspect he already knows.

—

_ KAMUKURA IZURU’S reaction to; OBJECT A: A 10,000 piece puzzle of plain, white rice. _

_ The puzzle was completed in record breaking time. With KAMUKURA solving the puzzle normally, then choosing to solve it without picture indication. He then found alternative ways to fit the puzzle pieces together. Curiously, he spent the fourth time standing upon his head.  _

_ He did not attempt a fifth time. _

_ OBJECT B: Carbon pencils and paper. _

_ KAMUKURA used a significant portion of the allotted paper to write a detailed, time stamped autobiography. He alternated hands, changed handwriting and languages, and spent a third of the forty-fifth page writing backwards in pig-latin. He then used the pages to fold origami, arranging the pieces in what was undoubtedly a tactical battle of sorts before unfolding them and scribbling over his writings. Covering the words until not even indentations were left. _

_ Using more of the paper, KAMUKURA drew out plans for a luxury cruise, military ship, and ferry. Upon growing bored of this boat fixation, he hypothesized over a new element before moving on to calligraphy. He filled half a dozen pages with different iterations of his name, then a dozen more pages with the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST’S name. _

_ He then used the rest of the paper to draw what was eventually concluded to be different aesthetic features of the ULTIMATE NEUROSCIENTIST. _

_ He did not stop until he ran out of paper. _

_ OBJECT C: Books of classic poetry. _

_ Upon return, the books KAMUKURA was granted were critiqued and marked up. Approximately thirteen misprints, five grammar mistakes, and two sentence fragments were identified. _

_ In the margins, it appears KAMUKURA had written his own poems. _

_ They were all completely scribbled out. _

—

* * * *

_ (Bargaining). _

You do not hate Kamukura Izuru.

Maybe there’s resentment, bitterness. A projection of your own emotions, your own hurts. 

But it’s not hatred.

(Not anymore, at least).

Because it’s not fair to hate someone for the sheer fact of their existence. To curse the air in their lungs and the pumping blood in their veins. The life still coiled stubbornly behind their ribs. If you were to hate Kamukura, it would be for far more valid reasons than simple regret.

Like the way he picks at the most vulnerable parts of you like a fleshy scab. How he abhors small talk but turns his nose at those who dive straight into the philosophical. Seeing them as arrogant fools who try to make themselves feel bigger. How you haven’t once seen any sort of emotion cross his infuriatingly pretty face.

But you know it’s there, that emotion. Dialed down and suppressed like screams drowned out by droning white noise. He’s almost like a child in that sense. Blind to what he’s feeling, unable to put a name to the sensations. It’s...amusing.

“Anger. Your heart beats in your ears and your chest roars. It’s a feeling of upset, indignation, betrayal. Like holding a burning ember in your hands and clenching your fists.”

He indulges your explanations. Whether it’s because he genuinely listens or just doesn’t bother to stop you, you don’t particularly care. At the very least, you seem to be getting closer. Or as close as you can get considering your circumstances.

“Sadness. Your stomach drops and your heart twists like a coil of rope. It’s a feeling associated with mourning, grief. It feels like gravity itself is pulling you down into the earth.”

You’re in one of those lessons now, in fact. Wishing you could offer him more than just your words, your woven web of glittering descriptions. That you could show him peace, teach him contentment. But that’s an incredibly soft, impossible line of thought you’re better off abandoning before it goes too far.

You don’t bother to lie to yourself. You’re just a quick spark of intrigue that will quickly fade out. Even now, you know you don’t have a monopoly on his attentions. His eyes are on you but his mind dashes from one thought to another. Overlapping and bleeding into one another in perfect, artificial harmony. He watches your hands move in explanation, plots out a structured five act play, stares at your fingers as they tap at the air, and solves world hunger all in one blink. Your presence is a shadowed afterthought, like smokey blots on a polaroid picture.

You’re so wrapped up in your own little world that you nearly scream when he speaks.

His voice is like fingertips skimming over skeletal reeds. Your head shooting up from where your eyes were focused off in the distance, gaze snapping to meet his like two magnets clicking together. He shifts forward, and you feel so small yet so large at the same time. Heart pushing up against your ribs in a painful ratatat that echoes in your hollowed chest.

“Feelings, unpredictable predictiality. Ergo boring,” his lips fit around the familiar word as if to taste it, “so, then, what do you  _ feel—“ _ his tongue touches the roof of his mouth as the word clicks behind his teeth “—when you look at me.”

You bite back a resigned sigh at the topic change. Kamukura ends and changes conversations as he pleases. Once, he even turned away and completely ignored you until you gave up and left. The image of Kamukura turning his back to you like a petulant toddler forever seared into your mind.

Red eyes bore into your own like glaring pools of crimson. Stare, catalogue, and list.

“Resentment, discomfort, and tenderness.”

“An eccentric combination,” he observes, “but not unexpected.” For him, perhaps. But for you the realization is earth shattering. Almost a disrespect to a dead boys memory, a memory you just realize you’ve been trying to revive. “Now, what do you feel when you look at the boy who came before me.”

You pause, hesitate. Imagining green where there now is red and pushing down the thought that it seems out of place.

“Regret, guilt, and nostalgia.”

You hear his tongue click behind his teeth. A warm sort of fondness welling at the familiar motion before you quash it down. A bit too late as that fondness floods the rational part of your brain and words tumble unwittingly from your mouth.

“And what do you feel…” it’s like you’re watching yourself from behind a screen. Unable to stop yourself from looking like a fool, “when you look at me?”

You don’t look away, and neither does he. Unblinking and unhesitating as he parts his lips and a single word falls from his tongue. Jaw twitching slightly in a motion you may have just imagined.

“Nothing.”

You nod. Gathering the nugget of hurt in your chest and locking it away behind your ribs.

You weren’t expecting anything more.

(Were you?)

—

_ Following the [REDACTED] incident, security around KAMUKURA is to be doubled immediately. _

—

* * * *

_ (Depression). _

Your footsteps are heavy once again. Weighed down with paranoia as you glance over your shoulder with every other step. Expecting for some unseen force to finally do you in, a small part of you whispering that you’d deserve it. Suffocating beneath the tense atmosphere of fear and suspicion, the bodies in the hall and the eyeball on the floor a sign of what’s to come.

Even Kamukura is susceptible to the shift.

“What…” he asks you, a strand of hair shadowing his eye as he blinks up at you, “would you call  _ despair? _ ”

That makes you pause. Gathering your thoughts and mulling them over like a jeweler appraising their work. You’re not unfamiliar with the whole hope v. despair dilemma (in fact, on your first and only day at Hope's Peak you’d come across someone who seemed very... _ invested  _ in said battle). But you’d never put much thought into it besides the surface level ‘despair-bad.’

But what  _ makes  _ it bad?

“Desperation, hate, misery, melancholy, distress; a warped reflection of its counterpart,” you say after a moment of thought, “why do you ask?”

He does not answer.

For once, you wish he would.

_ — _

_ Regarding the [REDACTED] incident involving the student council, Hope’s Peak staff must make an effort to keep the mishap from reaching the public. Even more effort must be applied in hiding KAMUKURA’S likely involvement. _

_ Security is to be tripled, effective immediately. _

_ — _

* * * *

There’s a cut on Kamukura’s cheek.

It’s not much, already scabbed over and healing. The thinnest of slashes over his angled cheekbone. But it’s there. 

And it’s damning.

“It wasn’t me, if that’s what you intend to ask,” he says quietly to the wall, and you get the sense he’s saying it for your sake more than his own. As he’s never said a word about the  _ incident  _ to anyone. No claims of innocence or guilt. Just classic, Kamukura silence.

“I know,” you say, though it’s a lie of comfort more than anything, “you’re hurt.”

A familiar leather satchel bumps against your thigh as you step further into the cell. That sad ache falling to the wayside as you make your way to where Kamukura sits. Fingers smoothing over the jagged cut before you can realize what you’re doing. He doesn’t react, doesn’t lean in or out. But when you move to pull away, his fingers close around your wrist and hold you there for just a moment more.

You feel his head shake more than you see it. Uncurling his fingers as your arm drops uselessly back down to your side. Instead, your hand moves to open the case. Pulling out the well-worn checkerboard and setting the pieces in silence. You’ve both played before, in another life. But this will be the first and last time with Kamukura Izuru.

“Shall we?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you understand.

You sit across from each other on the cot as you play in complete silence. Even the placing of pieces is muffled, his black and yours white, different in a way that makes your heart twist. You don’t expect to win, and you get the feeling Kamukura is dragging this out for longer than he needs to. Not necessarily going easy on you, but overlooking certain moves that would win him the game in an instant.

It’s...nice.

It’s nice.

“I am at...an impasse,” he breaks the silence with an almost-but-not-quite hesitance that immediately grabs your attention, “and I...would like to hear your opinion.” You glance up from where your fingers rest atop your rook. The cold bite of marble nipping at your fingertips. “Now tell me, which would you choose. Hope, or despair?”

You don’t ask for context, you know he won’t give it. But there’s a sinking feeling in your gut as you ponder your next words. A lofty feeling of morbid importance as words gather on your tongue. Ready to be released like doves to a flock of predators.

“Well...hope, undoubtedly,” you decide, gnawing thoughtfully on your thumbnail as you ponder your next move and next sentence all in the same breath, “after all, it represents what is ‘good’ in the world, in the most traditional sense. If I was made to choose between absolute good and its counterpart. From a moral standpoint, of course I’d choose the former.”

“And if you were to disregard those morals,” he proposes nonchalantly, not even looking at the board as he takes your queen piece, “if you were to pick the one with the most tumult, the most  _ interest _ ; which would you decide upon?”

“This is a very specific hypothetical, Kamukura,” you say after a moment of anxious hesitation.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time, you fear him like you should’ve from the very beginning. 

“Who said that it was?”

Your voice catches in your throat like feet tripping on snaggled roots. The two of you locked in a staredown that suddenly feels leagues more important than it once was. You feel the very weight of the world press down on your shoulders. A cloak woven of hope and despair and awful, awful responsibility that you wish to shirk off and abandon on the concrete floor. But you mustn't, you can’t. So you draw it tight around your shoulders and march on with your chin jut out in defiance.

“In that case…” you look away first, the burning pressure of failure boiling your blood and charring your bones, “there’s no straightforward answer. To take a world of complacency and force it into either hope or despair, both would be equally chaotic in their own right.” You force one of your pawns to doggedly march forward, a last ditch attempt to regain your queen. “Change in it of itself is practically impossible in today’s society. There’d be pitfalls at every turn, regardless of the path you choose.” Your fingers drag atop the battlefield the two of you have created, tracing the rounded edges of the pieces with quiet intensity, “hope, despair; they’re two roads carved in the same forest.”

A moment passes. Your fingers fiddling nervously in your lap as you wait for your opponent to make a move. To say something, do something. Anything other than the piercing, contemplative stare he fixes you with now.

“Very well,” he acquiesces after a discomfitingly long while, “though there is a flaw in your attempted argument.” You wince at the subtle condescension, though you’re not totally unused to it. “Hope represents order, structure. Does it not?” he counters, cutting off your pawns path with an easy flick of his wrist, “order implies predictability, predictability implies--no,  _ is  _ boring. The path to hope or despair may be equally entertaining, but what of the end result? How long will it be until I regret which side I’ve allied myself with.”

You swallow tightly, working around the lump wedged in the back of your throat as you try to soothe your nerves. Quelling the subtle shake of your fingers before gingerly moving another one of your pawns forward. Eyes darting across the scattered board before flitting up to meet Kamukuras.

“You are a complex man, Kamukura,” you say, shifting the topic as you watch him slide one of his pieces across the board, “have you considered that of the options you’ve presented, there is no way for you to truly be satisfied?”

“I have considered every possibility, every outcome, since my first calculated breath,” he says blankly, unblinkingly, “from the very moment you walked through the door, I predicted every word you’d say, just which strategy you’d choose to play against me, and how many bites you’d take out of your thumbnail.” Self consciously, you pull your hand from your mouth, “that, just now, I also predicted.”

“That is a very long-winded way to say ‘yes,’” you comment dryly.

“I have long since given up on the possibility of being truly invested in anything,” he continues blasely, “you could almost say this endeavor is my last hope.”

“Ironic.”

He does not deign that with a response. Choosing instead to pick off your diligent pawn with a disinterested push, leaving you with only your king and a single pawn remaining. The weight on your shoulders almost suffocating as you struggle to draw breath.

“It seems no matter what I say, you’ve already made your choice,” you sigh, something foreign coiling around your heart as you struggle to find the strength to meet his gaze. Stubbornly, or perhaps foolishly, pushing onward with your final pawn, “your allegiance, what little there is, has already been sworn.”

He does not object, and for once you wish you had your emotions crippled like his. For the ache in your heart is a pain you wish to forget as soon as possible.

“You could call this exchange a mere formality,” he clips, and you almost get the sense he’s rushing. For what purpose, you do not know, “checkmate.”

A defeated sigh slips past your lips. Eyes fixated on your little pawn only a single space away from its destination, falling short when it mattered the most.

“Good game,” you say out of habit, sighing once again as you pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingertips, “I am assuming you didn’t choose team puppies and rainbows, hm?”

The silence is enough of an answer.

“Oh, Kamukura,” your voice is quiet, a soft hush in the echochamber of a cell, “why must you be so stereotypically  _ evil _ .”

“It is not so black and white,” he argues impassively.

“Yet you chose the darkest shade of gray,” you counter. And oh, your eyes are watering. How pathetically silly and  _ weak _ that you wish you could just disappear into the floor, “I hope you don’t regret your decision, for both your sake and mine.”

Without so much as glancing at him, you reach out and grip your remaining pawn between thumb and forefinger. Twisting off the detachable base and revealing a single blinking button embedded inside. With only a breath of hesitation, you press it down and close your eyes as an explosion echoes in the distance. Lights flickering off for a beat only to switch back on with a whir of the backup generator. You open your eyes and startle, face to face with a Kamukura that must’ve moved during the momentary blackout. Red eyes boring into yours as you stand strong beneath his probing gaze.

“How strange,” he hums, leaning forward so his curtain of hair folds over the two of you. Forcing you to crane your head upwards to meet his eye, “you are not in league with  _ her--” _ he stresses the word as if it carries a special significance “--yet you pull a stunt as bold as this.” 

“I like to think the motivations for what I do are clear,” you say firmly, “but maybe bold faced simplicity is just too complicated in the end.” You make eye contact with him and don’t break away. Trying to commit every detail to your feeble, mortal memory, “I can’t say I trust you to make the right decision. But at the very least...stay  _ safe _ , Kamukura.”

His brows draw together as his lips press into a line then part, “how…”

It would be wrong to say the world slows down. Time ticks on unencumbered, the universe unbothered by this tiny, insignificant moment in the bowels of Hope's Peak. Your presence a temporary, meaningless blot that will be forgotten as quickly as it appears. Yet your heart thunders in your chest. Pulse hammering in your ears as nerves flare to life beneath the static of your skin. A barrage of sensation that crescendos as you watch him shift closer closer and closer still. Obediently pliant as your head tilts as if tethered to a string, letting his lips meet yours in an insistent press.

It’s...nice, if there’s any word for it. The part of your mind that hasn’t been overcome by fizzing static parsing through what talents of his you remember. Ultimate Charismatic, Ultimate Escort, Ultimate Companion; you’re sure he’s using one of those now. Because the way your stomach flips and heart jumps surely can’t be natural. A flicker of guilt stamped down into darkness as you realize that Kamukura has claimed what Hinata never had a chance to (and more guilt flares up at the realization that you don’t mind. Because it’s  _ Kamukura  _ that’s kissing you, no one else).

And this is your first kiss, you realize foggily. Eyes locked onto Kamukura’s as you note that neither of you have bothered to close them. Wide and unblinking as the unfamiliarity of it all sparks something deep in your gut. Something so terrifyingly beautiful that you might just cry.

He pulls away first. And maybe you’re just desperate, maybe you’re a hopeless fool; but you swear you see that same something reflected in his eyes before he blinks it away.

“ _...Interesting, _ ” he breathes. And he’s so unattainably perfect and flawed that you feel like Icarus grasping for the sun only to find the sea.

“For how long?” you whisper, and all you can feel is pain, “I like to think myself intelligent, Kamukura. And I know what you do when you lose interest in something.”

He does not dispute what you say, and you don’t expect him to. Don’t expect him to lie for the sake of your fragile, fragile emotions (but it still hurts. Hurts more than anything you could’ve imagined).

“May you find what you’re looking for,” you say simply, bowing your head as you watch him straighten his spine and fix an imaginary imperfection in his tie. Turning on his heel without another word as he makes for the door, your explosive distraction more than enough to ensure an easy exit.

And yet, he pauses.

“Sentiment,” his voice breaks the weighted silence. Your eyes darting up from the floor and back to him, lips parting in surprise as you recognize the sparkling pen held between his fingers. Flashing back to that conversation you had what feels like an eternity ago, when you were certain you could force emotion upon him. Pinned in place as his eyes meet yours for what very well may be the last time, “that’s what I feel when I look at you.”

And with that, he leaves.

_ (Acceptance). _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! I'm thinking of maybe making this into a series of sorts, because I'm just really invested in the characters and story I've created. So let me know if you're interested, and I'll probably make a sequel soon!


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